IN A tense town called Buluan in Maguindanao province, where the municipal hall was a burnt-out shell, we took a ride in a narrow, outrigger-less banca down the Buluan River, a main thoroughfare for a number of Muslim communities along the banks. The waterway was also the dividing line between two warring clans that had recently called a truce. At the height of the conflict a few years ago, a foot bridge across the river was destroyed to prevent one side from attacking the other. Since the truce, a single bamboo pole was laid across a portion where the wooden planks of the bridge had been, parallel another bamboo pole for use as a hand rail. To get to the other side, we had to balance ourselves precariously on the pole with all of our equipment, wondering whether the truce was just as perilous as the crossing.

In Mindanao, the political conflicts between the government and various rebel groups hog the headlines. But generally unreported are the many minor wars between fellow Muslims, feuding families that started fighting over a boundary dispute or a crime committed against a member of another family. Courts are either absent or barely functioning in many places in Muslim Mindanao; revenge is the main form of justice.

But sometimes families just get tired of it all, especially the risks for family members who had nothing to do with the dispute except be related by blood to someone directly involved. The peace makers also see the wider benefits of compromise, such as the stability that can lead to economic opportunities. Rido is a well-known word in Mindanao for feud; but much less familiar is the term kanduli, which means festive occasion for making peace, among other reasons. In places wracked by rido, the occasional kanduli can result in radical changes.

For years, tensions between the Mangudadatu clan of Buluan and the Paglas family of the adjoining Datu Paglas municipality threatened to erupt into armed confrontations. In early January, elders from both sides met over a kanduli and agreed to ease the hostility.

"Kinausap namin sila, at nakiusap din sila sa amin na kung pupuwede hintuin na natin ito kasi walang nadadamay kung hindi maliliit na tao (We talked to them, and they also asked us if it were possible to stop feuding because the only ones who got hurt were the innocent and the powerless)," said Totoy Paglas, his town's two-term mayor. "E kami, nagkikita kami sa labas, parang wala lang sa amin. Pero pag nandito, nagaaway-away kami (We'd see each other outside, and everything would be fine. But once we were here, we'd fight)."

The mayor was driving our team around Datu Paglas as he talked, perhaps the only politician in these parts who drove himself and without any escorts. His municipality, named after his grandfather, had become known outside Mindanao as having remained peaceful even during the height of the government-MILF war of 2000 that raged in the towns around it.

Mayor Paglas didn't have a complex explanation for the general safety in his town's streets: constant dialog involving elders, initiating compromise, and livelihood. "Ang talagang nakapagbago sa isip ng mga tao dito nung una yung pagdating ng National Irrigation Administration, noong ma-implement yung irrigation sa amin (What really changed the way people thought here was the coming of the National Irrigation Administration, when irrigation came to our place)," he said. "Nawala na yung gulo-gulo... nakapagtrabaho lahat ng tao (Trouble disappeared…all the people had work)."

Increased livelihood, he explained, lessened criminal activities. The improved peace-and-order situation in turn attracted investors who saw the potential of the region's rich soil. That created more jobs, so that even former kidnappers are gainfully employed, the mayor said.

The town's showcase today is La Frutera, a modern banana plantation and processing plant that employs 2,000 men and women, and exports to Saudi Arabia, Japan, and very soon, Iran. One of the fastest growing enterprises in central Mindanao, La Frutera was started by Mayor Paglas's brother Toto, a former mayor who ran and lost in last year's election for governor of the Autonomous Region for Muslim Mindanao.

On the day of our visit to the plant, I listened in as Samira interviewed Kulaypa S. Mamangcas, a pregnant Maguindanao woman who is a supervisor in La Frutera. Mamangcas talked about how the plant had changed the lives of women there. "Kakaunti lang ang trabaho na puede sa babae rito sa amin (There was little work available for women here)," she said, as rows of women washed bananas and put them on a conveyor belt enroute to boxes. But now, she said, "nakapunta pa ako sa Japan para pag-aralan ang market namin (I was even able to go to Japan to study our market)."

A happy woman in a supervisory position working in a modern company in a peaceful rural town in Muslim Mindanao—how many stereotypes can be broken in a single sentence? In a land where bad news is the norm, perhaps the occasional story of progress and peace-making is the more significant news. Documented and reported, these kinds of stories might have a better chance of recurring. Alas, the pregnant supervisor's experience and that of Datu Paglas are still exceptions to the rule.

But they weren't the only exceptions. We met more than a few along the way—among them, young community organizers who chose a different way to Muslim empowerment, a land owner who shared his land, a mayor who traveled unarmed, and a peace journalist who thought a bridge of reconciliation was just as important a story as the conflict that ended with the laying of a single bamboo pole.

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PHILIPPINE CENTER FOR INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM